Mystique
by im-rogue-storm
Summary: Mystique is talented at just about everything. Being a mutant spy forced to work for Chalres Xaier, she has to be! There's really nothing she can't do--or at least she thinks so, until she finds a six-year-old orphan in the backseat of her car...
1. Chapter One

Mystique  
  
Hey everyone!  
  
Man, I have WAAAY too many stories, you know that? This one I just came up with because I wanted a change, you know? This is based on the comic book Mystique, so don't get all freaked when Mystique's different then she is from the X-Men comics, cuz she IS different in MYSTIQUE then in X-Men...ok. That's enough confusing.  
  
This fic is TOTALLY dependent on YOUR reviews, ok? The only reason I'll even consider continuing is if you ask me to in reviews. Deal? Ok.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Mystique or anything related to her. The idea for this story is MINE though, so if ya wanna use it or any of the characters I made up, ASK. I'm pretty nice about it ;-).  
  
  
  
Chapter 1  
  
"Go on vacation," they said.  
  
"Take a break! You deserve it!"  
  
Man, I hate those two.  
  
I inhale deeply from my cigarette and breathe out, watching curls of smoke dance from my lips and out over the sea, joining the steam from the sizzling hotdogs and the pollution of New York streets.  
  
There are people everywhere—kids skating on the sidewalks, adults rushing past with their all-important briefcases, teens slouching by with walkmans banging and piercings flashing.  
  
Most of the boys are doubling back to stare at me, their mouths hanging open in apparent shock and satisfication.  
  
I take another drag, savor the smoke's bitter taste in my mouth, ad then let it all out as I mutter, "What? You boys never seen a mutant terrorist before or what?"  
  
That gets 'em to either scoff or turn and walk quickly away.  
  
Hey, I was telling the truth.  
  
Maybe I should have changed from my disguise when I said it.  
  
That would've got 'em good.  
  
I can't help but to chuckle slightly at the thought—me, in my natural form, standing on the boardwalk having a smoke while everyone runs around me in sheer terror.  
  
Just can't have a decent rest around here while being yourself.  
  
I drop my cigarette to the ground and step on it with one high-heeled shoe, crushing it beneath my toe as I adjust the straps of my more-than-slightly revealing tank top.  
  
I suppose I should be moving on from here; taking my so-called 'vacation'.  
  
It's not like Xavier's giving me anything to do until I get my 'decent rest'.  
  
Curse him.  
  
I roll my eyes as I fumble around in my purse for a mirror so I can put some more lipstick on; it already feels like I've got on the whole tube, but whatever.  
  
I like the shade.  
  
Once my hands finally clasp a mirror, I slide it out and flip it open, admiring my reflection for a minute before I smooth the lipstick over my already too-scarlet lips.  
  
The reflection staring at me through half-lowered eyelids is sickeningly pretty, that of some lady I saw at the bar last night. Her skin is somewhat pale, though still stunning, appearing perfect against her cascade of ebony waves. Her eyes are dark and fiery, alight with a 'come hither' attitude. She probably looks fine WITHOUT makeup, but she wore a ton when I saw her.  
  
I suppose me smearing lipstick all over her is another way I'm getting payback; hey, it was her fault for calling my jacket 'last season'.  
  
Nobody insults MY disguises, Babe.  
  
I smirk slightly, mimicking her light and sarcastic tone, "Oh, no Officer! I swear, I don't KNOW what you saw, but it wasn't ME being shoved off that roof..."  
  
I rub my lips together and kiss the air, mimicking her perfectly before I snap the mirror shut and toss it into my bag with the lipstick.  
  
I see a little boy, maybe six or seven, sitting on a bench within a foot of me, staring at me openly while his mother buys him a hotdog across the way.  
  
He looks like he's disgusted.  
  
I raise my eyebrows at him, and then exclaim "Boo!" causing him to jump and run to his mother, gazing back at me only after he's hidden behind her skirt.  
  
I smirk at him condescendingly and continue down the street before anyone can try to chew me out for scaring an 'innocent little angel'.  
  
  
  
I'm so scared.  
  
I've never felt so afraid in my life.  
  
I'm standing by a big wall, one that has rain running down like a waterfall; it's getting me really wet.  
  
There's a scary storm going on, and the sky's on fire and there's screaming everywhere.  
  
I wish someone would come get me.  
  
Someone nice, like a policeman.  
  
Where'd all the nice people go?  
  
All I see are bad people.  
  
Bad people who want me.  
  
They want me, so they can take me again and hurt me more.  
  
I shiver and hug myself as I watch some mean men looking for me.  
  
They're calling my name, and it sounds bad the way they say it.  
  
I hate them.  
  
I hate them for taking me away from the House, even if it was kind of dirty and smelly and small.  
  
I hate them for making me stay with them and for locking me up in the dark, cold closet.  
  
They're so bad.  
  
Especially when they hurt me.  
  
That's when they're really bad.  
  
When they make me cry and scream and 'beg' them.  
  
That's the word Miss Reagan seems to like.  
  
'Beg'.  
  
"Beg me," she says.  
  
And she won't stop hurting me until I do.  
  
She's the boss.  
  
In most movies I saw in the House, the men were the boss, but she's a lady and she's a boss.  
  
Everybody listens to her.  
  
Everybody but me.  
  
I never listen to her.  
  
Except when she says, "Beg me."  
  
I listen then, because it hurts too much.  
  
She hurts me too much, and I HAVE to listen then.  
  
The men are staring to get really angry now, and they're pushing things down and yelling for me to 'come out'.  
  
That's why I'm crying now.  
  
They're shouting really loud, and if they shout too loud, Miss Reagan will hear and get mad, and if she gets mad...  
  
I shiver when I think about it, so I stop.  
  
I can hear them getting closer to me, so I quietly run down the street, the rain sinking through my clothes and making me feel so cold...  
  
  
  
Another bolt of lightning slices through the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shatters the silence around me.  
  
I wake up instantly, sitting up suddenly on the cheap couch in the cheap room I rented from this cheap hotel.  
  
My head throbs and I lean back, closing my eyes and sighing; oh, what I'd do for an aspirin.  
  
It's been raining like this for hours; the only reason I pulled off the road is because of this crap.  
  
Otherwise, I'd probably be in Las Vegas, gambling my money away on absolute nothingness.  
  
I groan as I glance at the clock; it's dead, like the rest of the power.  
  
"I can't believe this!"  
  
I kick the thick blanket from my legs and stand, stretching as I sit on the edge of the lumpy mattress this place calls a bed and pick up my watch: 3:36.  
  
I moan and lie back, closing my eyes against another flash of lightning.  
  
I haven't had this bad of a headache in years.  
  
The pain is like a hot blade prying my skull open and chopping my brains to mush.  
  
Thinking that makes it hurt more.  
  
I get up slowly and stumble into the bathroom, feeling dizzy as I run cold water over a worn out washcloth.  
  
In a few minutes, I'm lying in bed, the washcloth over my eyes as I try (fruitlessly) to get back to sleep.  
  
About then, the power comes back on and the TV (which I'd mistakenly forgotten to turn off earlier) begins to blare the story of some kidnapping.  
  
I jump from the sudden noise and feel my head scream in agony from the sudden bright lights.  
  
Swearing angrily, nausea bubbling in my throat, I reach over and switch the lamp off, grabbing the remote and starting to turn the television off as well when I pause for a moment.  
  
"—last, when young Meghan Anne Carnelle was seen. She is said to be wearing blue jean-shorts, a light-colored blouse, and a bright yellow jacket. If you have any information concerning her whereabouts, please call-"  
  
I press the power button and lean back into the pillows, lifting the phone to my ear and pressing the button for room service.  
  
As soon as voice comes on the other line, I ask for aspirin, and hang up.  
  
I'm getting sleep tonight, even if I have to drug myself to do it.  
  
  
  
I can hear them behind me, yelling at me to stop.  
  
They must think I'm stupid or something.  
  
If I stop, they'll grab me and take me back THERE.  
  
I'm not going back.  
  
NEVER.  
  
I keep running, sliding in the puddles and breathing really hard, like there's something stuck in my throat.  
  
They're starting to shoot those weird, sharp needles that put me to sleep, and I have to duck every time one comes close; I'm screaming for help and praying they'll keep missing me until someone sees me.  
  
It seems like everyone but me and the chasers are sleeping; no one's saving me.  
  
Whatever happened to superheroes?  
  
I'm crying still, and I keep telling myself to stop, cuz it makes it harder to see, but I just can't; I'm too scared.  
  
I don't want to go back.  
  
I'm so cold and scared and tired, I just want to stop and fall on the ground and curl up and cry, but if I do they'll grab me.  
  
Reagan would be SO mad.  
  
She'd NEVER forgive me.  
  
She told me never to run away.  
  
She said that if I did, that would make me a bad girl.  
  
She showed me what she does to bad girls.  
  
It's even worse than what she does to little girls who don't listen.  
  
That's me; I'm a little girl who doesn't listen.  
  
I'm naughty.  
  
Not bad; just naughty.  
  
But that can be beaten out of me, Reagan says.  
  
Now that I ran away, though, I'm bad.  
  
And THAT can't be beaten out of me.  
  
That makes me feel so scared I almost stop where I am and just die right there.  
  
Can that happen?  
  
Can you just make yourself die?  
  
I'm on a really long and dark road now, and nobody's out.  
  
There are a lot of old buildings here, and they have those colored lights that make the buzzing sound, like they're gonna break soon.  
  
There are a few cars parked along the road, and all of them are empty.  
  
That gives me an idea.  
  
Before any of the men can see me, I drop down to the ground and crawl under a pretty red car.  
  
It makes me get even more wet and cold and it scrapes my knees up, but when I lie still and hold my breath, the men pass right by me.  
  
I kind of thought they would.  
  
They aren't very smart.  
  
I'm too scared to get out from under the car, though; I'm too afraid that they'll come back and see me.  
  
So I just lie there for a while, getting more wet and shivering, my legs stinging from the scrapes I got.  
  
After a long time, I get out and look down the street; when I see no one, I sit down by the car and cry.  
  
It feels good to cry, because it's like flushing out all the bad stuff that's happened so I can try to be happy again.  
  
I like being happy.  
  
It's better than being sad.  
  
And crying just makes me feel better.  
  
But it makes me tired.  
  
When I've cried all I can, I feel so sleepy I can barely move.  
  
I know I can't fall asleep out here in the rain; I'll catch my 'death of cold', whatever that means.  
  
I don't know where I got the idea, but after a second, I reach up and try the back door to the red car; it's unlocked, and after I swing it open, I climb inside.  
  
The seats are really smooth and kind of chilly; I think they're leather.  
  
This car must be SO expensive!  
  
I think the owner would be mad to have me in here.  
  
I get down at the space between the front and back seats and cover myself up with a jacket I find; I'll just wake up early before anyone gets in here.  
  
It'll all be fine.  
  
I feel a lot better now, warm and safe from the bad people and done crying.  
  
I'm asleep before I know it.  
  
  
  
Morning dawns bright and sunny, showing no signs of the previous rain or of my bad mood.  
  
My headache lingers still, gripping the foggy edges of my mind with clawed fingers, scraping every last fragment of pain into my skull it can.  
  
Man, I hate this.  
  
I'm showered and in disguise by six, checked out and in the car by a quarter 'til seven.  
  
I pop a few more aspirin into my mouth, knowing I've probably already maxed the limit and I'll drop down dead on the road.  
  
Oh well.  
  
I've driven about an hour when I finally morph into a humanistic version of myself: same hair, same figure, just green eyes and tanned skin.  
  
I would go all the way with the indigo skin and yellow eyes, but I really am NOT in the mood to cause a ten-car pile-up on the expressway.  
  
I have the radio on, but I'm not exactly listening to what song might be on; it's background noise.  
  
"Some vacation this is turning out to be," I mutter irritably.  
  
That's when I hear the half-stifled little sob from behind me and almost crash into the poor guy in front of me.  
  
Glancing into the rearview mirror, my heart palpitating against my chest like some crazed bird trying to escape a cage, my eyes catch sight of a tousle-haired head lying on the back seat.  
  
"Holy-!"  
  
I swerve onto the side of the road immediately, receiving none-too-kind gestures from my fellow drivers as I kick my door open and reach into the glove box for my gun.  
  
"Some loser homeless dude breakin' into MY car on THIS day when my head STILL hurts and I'm THIS irked?" I feel my lips curl into a fetal snarl as I wrench the back door open and thrust my gun forward, "Oh no you d-"  
  
It's weird how I can actually sense my heart stop at this moment.  
  
There's a little girl in my car, staring at me with the biggest eyes I've ever seen, and she's got tears streaming down her cheeks, and she's thrown herself away from me and is begging, "PLEASE! DON' HURT ME! I'M SOWWY I GOT IN DA CAR! I DIDN'T MEAN TA MAKE YOU MAD! DON' HURT ME!!"  
  



	2. Chapter Two

Hey, IU got a few reviews, so I figured I'd post another chapter. Glad you all liked it! I'm enjoying writing it! (  
  
Ima_Super_Mute_Ant: LOVE the username, first of all. Excellent choice. Very original! Thanks for revieing! Glad you're enjoying it so far!  
  
Demiducky25: LOL, Glad you're intrigued! I hope I can keep you that way! ;- )  
  
Rogue151: HEY! Glad you like the story. You don't think Mystique's out of character? Oh, good. I was a little worried about that. You should definitely start reading the Mystique comics. They're SO cool! By the way, I LOVE your fanfics!  
  
Pendragon, ol' buddy, ol' pal! How are you? So sweet of you to review! Considering I'll be murdered in my sleep if I don't update this, I've decided to post this chappy for you! Aren't I sweet? (  
  
Enjoy, ya'll!  
  
Chapter 2  
  
I hate guns.  
  
They're so bad.  
  
All they do is hurt and kill.  
  
And I have one pointed at me right now.  
  
I'm scooting against the other door, shaking cuz I'm so scared, and I'm crying, 'begging' the lady not to hurt me.  
  
I really didn't mean to make her angry.  
  
I was only trying to go to sleep somewhere safe.  
  
I didn't wake up on time, is all.  
  
The lady looks really surprised, like something scary just popped out and said, "BOO!"  
  
I'm not THAT scary, am I?  
  
She just stares at me like I'm an alien or something, and after a while, I stop crying, cuz I see she's not gonna hurt me.  
  
She and I just look at each other for a minute, and then this guy in an ugly brown truck stops by us and yells, "HEY LADY! YOU GONNA MOVE YER FREAKIN' CAR OR WHAT?"  
  
  
  
The man behind me has a loud and arrogant voice, one that makes me clench my teeth in irritation.  
  
I snap out of my stunned daze and turn to him, my eyes regarding him coldly; I don't even have to say anything before he moves on nervously.  
  
Good. Now that's over, back to business.  
  
I turn around and see the girl still backed up against the other door.  
  
She's still trembling, but at least she's stopped crying.  
  
I slowly lower my gun to my waistband and slide it in, crossing my arms over my chest as I think for the right words. Finally, I demand, "Didn't your mom ever teach you not to play around cars?"  
  
She hesitantly swallows and then whispers, "I don't have a mommy. She died."  
  
I feel a sharp prick of sympathy at first, but brush it away, "Ok, fine. Then what about your dad?"  
  
She shook her head, "He died too."  
  
I gaze at her, my eyes slowly taking in her jean shorts and light blouse.  
  
Realization hits pretty quickly.  
  
"You're Meghan Carnelle, aren't you?"  
  
She slowly nods, and tears fill her eyes again, "Are you gonna kill me?"  
  
I scoff slightly and shake my head, "No. I'm not gonna kill you."  
  
"Are you gonna take me back to THEM?"  
  
Her voice breaks and she sobs.  
  
I frown slightly and shake my head in confusion, "Huh?"  
  
"Them," she explains tearfully, "Are you going to take me back?"  
  
"What? To the police?"  
  
"No. To THEM."  
  
She seems pretty darn emphatic on this 'THEM' thing, so I change the subject, "How old are you?"  
  
"Six..."  
  
"Six. Great."  
  
I run my hands through my hair and sigh; this day is just getting better and better.  
  
Finally, I look at her and say, "Look, Kid. I'd really like to listen to your whole story about 'them' and all, and I'd like to return you home—really, I would—but I can't. I'm on VACATION, and...well...I don't like cops much."  
  
Meghan tilts her head slightly and whispers, "How come?"  
  
I scowl, "Personal matters, Kid."  
  
She drops her head and stares at her hands, "Oh."  
  
I hear another car pull up behind me and this time a loud and shrill woman's voice calls out, "Can't you get control of your kid, lady?"  
  
I roll my eyes as she pulls away; MY kid?  
  
Meghan looks NOTHING like me.  
  
How could someone mistake her for MY kid?  
  
She's small and horribly skinny with very plain, straight blonde hair and freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose and almost up to her dark blue eyes.  
  
She doesn't look like ME at all.  
  
"...are you takin' me home?"  
  
I start slightly, realizing that she was talking to me.  
  
"Home?"  
  
"Uh huh. Are you gonna bring me back?"  
  
"Where do you live?"  
  
"In Cal-ee-for-nee-uh."  
  
I blink at her, and then ask, "California?"  
  
She nods.  
  
That about tears it.  
  
"Ok. Out. C'mon."  
  
I grab the kid's wrist and drag her out, "I can't get caught up in this."  
  
  
  
It kind of hurts when the lady pulls me out of the car, but I don't say anything as she closes the door and says, "I'm in enough trouble as it is without getting involved in some kidnapping case."  
  
I'm kind of confused by that, but I just kind of blink and stare at her while she stands with her hands on her hips and looks at me.  
  
After a while, she reaches out and turns me around and says, "Ok. Town's that way, only about a mile away. You're young, you can do it. Nearest cop there'll help you. Good luck."  
  
Then she turns around to get into her car.  
  
I'm really confused now, but I don't have any time to ask her about it, because she's closed herself into her car and is starting it.  
  
I run up to her window and grip the edge of it, "Are you leavin'?"  
  
She jumps when I speak and turns around to look at me; she sounds a little bit annoyed, "Wha-? YES! I'm leaving. I said I can't get involved in this. Last tim4e I tried to save a kidnapped kid...it just wasn't pretty, ok? Besides, you don't want to hang with me, trust me. I'm not nice."  
  
I just kind of look at her wh9ile she turns her radio up, "Just keep walking down the street. Someone else'll pick you up...or maybe you'll walk all the way to the cops, who knows? All I know is that I am NOT going all the way to California. And I'm NOT getting all involved with you."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"Because, you're kidnapped! The police will think I took you! Or the people who DID take you will come and strangle me—or try to."  
  
"Strangle?"  
  
She uses really weird words.  
  
She kind of stares at me like I'm dumb and rolls her eyes, "Look, Kid-"  
  
"My name's Meghan."  
  
"Fine. Meghan, I don't have time or money or KINDNESS enough to take you in and drive you to the police. I hate cops. They just...I don't like them."  
  
"How come?"  
  
"Because I DON'T."  
  
I'm starting to feel like crying again; I don't want to be left alone on this street.  
  
I don't know where I am.  
  
"Can't you just drive me to da cops and I'LL tell dem?"  
  
"No. No, no, no, no, no!"  
  
She's started the car now and is reaching over to roll the window up, "You're tough, Kid. Just go find someone else to help you. I WON'T."  
  
Then she pulls away from me.  
  
  
  
Good riddance.  
  
I turn the radio up even more and sigh, agitated; why do things like thisd have to happen tome?  
  
All I wanted was a stinkin' vacation!  
  
Ok, I didn't want one at first, but now I do.  
  
In any event, I do NOT want to get caught up in some kidnapping case.  
  
Definitely not.  
  
No way.  
  
Just forget it, I'm finding a good hotel in Las Vegas.  
  
Gambling, late night clubs, drinking?  
  
Yes.  
  
Babysitting, potty training, baby talk?  
  
NO!  
  
Infinite times NO!  
  
I glance in the rearview mirror and see her sitting on the ground with her face buried in her hands.  
  
She's crying.  
  
Great.  
  
Just great.  
  
The little girl is crying.  
  
With a very furious and exaggerated sigh, I jerk the steering wheel over to the vurb and switch to reverse.  
  
Curses on rearview mirrors!  
  
  
  
I can hear a car backing up somewhere ahead and I look up just in time to see the layd's car stop inches in front of my face.  
  
I can feel my heart in my throat; I thought she was gonna hit me!  
  
I watch as she kicks the door open and comes over to me, not looking very happy at all.  
  
"Kid, you're pathetic!"  
  
Ouch. That hurt.  
  
What's pathetic?  
  
She roughly pulls me up by my arms and dusts my shorts off, "You can't just live like this? Just dropping dead every time someone refuses to help? You have to FIGHT!"  
  
"Fight?" I ask softly as she brushes tears from my cheeks.  
  
"Yea. Fight."  
  
"Like punching?"  
  
"No! Like...well, sure. Like punching. Quit giving up so easily. You're going to get yourself killed!"  
  
She pauses for a second and looks at me, and then she shakes her head, "You're not gonna make it in this world if you continue on like this?"  
  
I tilt my head to the side, confused, "Like what?"  
  
"Like...this!"  
  
She's waving at me, like it's obvious.  
  
I don't get it, but oh well.  
  
I guess it's an adult thing.  
  
"You're going to get pushed around by everyone," she says, and then she stands up and crosses her arms.  
  
I kind of just stare at her, and then I whisper, "I'm hungry."  
  
  
  
Figures.  
  
Speak a load of wisdom to a kid, and all they have to say back is, "I'm hungry."  
  
Why do I even try?  
  
"You're hungry?"  
  
She nods, and when I look at her, I do think she looks a little pale form undernourishment.  
  
Why didn't I keep anything in my CAR?  
  
I look around, like maybe some blasted angel from above will drop down and take her away, but instead all that happens is she reaches out and grabs my hand.  
  
That shocks me and I almost pull away, but somehow stop myself.  
  
I glance down at her indifferently, "What do you eat?"  
  
"Food."  
  
"Food?"  
  
I realize then how hungry I am; I haven't eaten a decent meal in days.  
  
I look over to my car, at Meghan, and then down the road to the town behind me.  
  
"Well...I guess I can help you out with this ONE thing..."  
  
I bite my lips slightly as I ponder my choices carefully.  
  
Why is this decision so hard to make?  
  
She's old enough to walk a mile down the road and ask for help!  
  
But there's just something about leaving her by herself that makes me feel...dare I say it, guilty.  
  
Guilty.  
  
Great, now I have a conscience.  
  
"What the heck," I mutter, leading the girl hesitantly over to my car, "What's the harm in one stupid lunch?"  
  
So much for not getting involved.  
  



	3. Chapter Three

Hey everyone!  
  
I'm SO glad you're all reviewing! This is great! Really makes my day, u kno? Ok, so I'm not really running out of ideas here...but I'm getting a bit of writer's block. If ANY of you have ideas, SHARE! You guys are, as the French say, an INSPIRATION! Wait...Americans say that, right? Oops...LOL.  
  
Tique- Hey, thanks! Mystique's chacter is really hard to get down, you know? She's so complex! I'm glad you think I"ve done a good job! *grins* *bows* Thank you, thank you!  
  
Pendragon- Ello, Luv! Oooh! I'm SO glad you like my stories! I work hard on them, u kno, and it's just SO cool to have you review them and such! LOL. Seriously, thankyouthankypouthankyou! I LOVE your reviews! They make me smile! *grins so wide face cracks in half* Oh dear. That's another trip to the doctor...  
  
Demiducky- Hey! LOL, yea Mystique has SO mnay sides, it's like writing about two hundred different people at the same time! But she's really quite enthralling, don't you think so? (  
  
Rogue151: Hey! Sorry it took me so long to update (yes, I understand about writer's block, lol). Oh I DO hope you continue your story! I LOVE it! It's really exciting! Mystique doesn't remember about taking care of Rogue, because in this series of comics, that entire time in her life is never really mentioned. She does make a rather good mother in those comics though, doesn't she? (  
  
  
  
Chapter 3  
  
I admit it, I feel a little bad for Meghan while I sit here sipping at a Coke and watch her ravenously inhaling her grilled cheese sandwich—I feel bad because it has the texture (and taste) of cardboard, but she acts like it's the best meal she's ever had.  
  
"Geez, Kid, why don't you try CHEWING the food? It won't get caught in your throat that way."  
  
She looks up at me with cheese dribbling down her chin and I force down a grin; I'm NOT thinking she's somewhat-almost-a little cute.  
  
Slowly I shake my head in disgust and hand her a napkin, motioning with my hand to show her where the mess is on her face.  
  
While she carelessly wiped her chin with her sleeve and tosses the napkin on her lap, I force down a bite of salad and make a face.  
  
She giggles you look goofy.  
  
I raise an eyebrow and cast a wary gaze over her tousled hair and messy face, "I do?"  
  
She really doesn't seem to care, though, and I find myself longing for that simplicity; not caring what I look like, as long as I'm happy and comfortable.  
  
That would shave off about two hours of getting ready (if I didn't just have to melt myself into any form I wanted that is).  
  
She finishes her sandwich in about five minutes, and when the waitress comes back she goes on about what a big girl she is.  
  
I roll my eyes, "Can I have the check, please?"  
  
The waitress eyes me suspiciously, happy smile and high-toned-joy gone; guess she saves that for 'big girls'.  
  
"Don't you want dessert?" she drawls in her Southern accent.  
  
I start to say 'no', but then I remember Meghan; how long has it been since she's had dessert?  
  
What the heck, I'll be nice.  
  
"Sure. Whatever. You like pie, Meghan?"  
  
I swear, her smile must have lit up the whole room as she nodded empathetically, "My favorite's apple."  
  
"Get the girl some apple pie, ice-cream on top  
  
"Coming up, Hun."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
While the waitress wanders off, glanci9ng over her shoulder at me, I can't help but tp feel a little nervous; normally, my disguises are flawless, and I haven't tried to transform myself since I first met Meghan (figured it'd just freak the kid out).  
  
So why has she been watching us for the past half hour?  
  
I tap my fingers on the tabletop nervously as Meghan asks, "How come you're bein so nice to me?"  
  
"Nice?" I scoff, shaking my head, "I'm just 'doing my duty', Meg. Nothin' 'nice' about it."  
  
"You got me pie."  
  
"I want some."  
  
"You asked for the check first, and then you looked at me funny, and then you got pie. And you asked me if I liked it. And you got apple, my favorite."  
  
Dang. Three points, all needing to be shot down.  
  
I'm not nice, darnit!  
  
"Well, I changed my mind. I decided if I had to eat tree leaves for dinner, I could at least get dessert. And I looked at you to make sure you wiped your face off."  
  
Ok, one down, two to go.  
  
How to answer these?  
  
I rest my chin in my hand, my eyes flicking over to the waitress, who is still watching us (though she turns away every time she sees me looking)  
  
"And...I asked if you liked it because...I can't eat it all by myself. Too mnay bl;asted calories. I got you're favorite because it's MY favorite."  
  
Ha! Call ME nice, huh?  
  
She smiles slightly, "I like you, Misti."  
  
'Misti'?  
  
Oh yea.  
  
Her nickname for me.  
  
She decided 'Mystique' is too 'weird', so I'm 'Misti', now.  
  
At least I can spell it like I want to.  
  
Luckily, before I have to go off on some stupid, mushy statement, our waitress returns with our pie which is (thankfully) surprisingly good.  
  
Meghan eats over half of it, which actually doesn't shock me, and when she's finished she simply sits back with crayons and a napkin and doodles some stars and flowers.  
  
The weird thing is, after clearing our dishes, our waitress never returns with the check.  
  
Which has me VERY bugged.  
  
Maybe it's my instincts.  
  
Maybe it's from too mnay attacks on poor-little-ol'-me.  
  
In any event, my suspicions are for good reason, it turns out.  
  
It's as I watch Meghan draw her version of the Mona Lisa that the waitress returns...with two armed police officers.  
  
When I look and realize what's happening, Meghan is still coloring in Mona Lisa's face green.  
  
I try to keep calm and collected as I inquire, "Can I... help you?"  
  
"Yes, Ma'am. We're sorry to disturb you, but we have a few questions we'd like you to answer for us."  
  
I shrug, nonchalant as always, "Sure. That's fine with me."  
  
Meghan's eyes have found the cops now, and she's watching me nervously.  
  
I just watch the policeman before me as he continues speaking in an annoyingly measured tone, "We're going to need to take you and your child downtown with us..."  
  
He keeps blabbing on about my rights and everything as he takes out handcuffs; that sets me off.  
  
I reach for my gun at the same instant that Meghan slides under the table and clutches my other hand; kid's relatively bright.  
  
"...these cuffs are mandatory. You're innocent until proven guilty..."  
  
I'm slowly sliding the gun up to rest on my lap, aiming it at the man's knee.  
  
"...We'd appreciate cooperation-!"  
  
There's an ear shattering blast, followed by a few screams and startled cries from some of the other customers.  
  
The officer falls to the ground, clutching his leg and swearing in agony as his partner advances on me with his gun aimed, "Hands in the air!"  
  
"If you say so," I reply softly, and lift my gun out from under the table, firing another bullet into the man's shoulder.  
  
"I didn't WANT to do that," I lie as I lift Meghan out from under the table and start towards the exit.  
  
The waitress—who ran at the first gunshot—is standing almost immediately nearby, so I toss Meghan aside and decide to pay her a little visit.  
  
As soon as I know Meghan's fine, I slam the stupid wench into the wall, "WHADJA CALL THE COPS FOR?!?"  
  
"You're the kidnapper of that poor girl, Meghan Carnelle. I can't let you hurt her any longer-"  
  
"I'm not her kidnapper-!"  
  
"Well, you're CERTAINLY not her mother!"  
  
"I'm TAKIN' HER TO HER MOTHER YOU IDIOT!"  
  
"I'm certain that's a lie. You've probably recently taken her and are taking her to your car to tie her up and starve her, aren't you?!@?"  
  
"WHY WOULD I BUY HER DINNER AND A FREAKIN' PIE IF I WAS GOING TO TIE HER UP AND STARVE HER?!?"  
  
That gets her for a sec.  
  
She pauses and then gets a smug look, "I'll bet you're fattening her up, aren't you? So she'll be ugly and you'll be prettier?"  
  
A bullet races past my ear and shatters the window; time to break for it.  
  
"You're a real idiot, you know that?" I holler as I shove her to the ground and grab Meghan's wrist.  
  
  
  
So THIS is what it's like to be in the middle of a gunfight!  
  
Neat!  
  
It's a little scary, and I'm kind of nervous that Misti will get us hurt, but she's pretty good at firing at the cops.  
  
It's weird, saying that.  
  
Misti's firing at the cops, so does that make her a bad guy?  
  
I don't think so.  
  
They were trying to take me away, and even though I would have liked that, they also tried to put Misti in jail.  
  
She's not bad.  
  
She shouldn't go to jail.  
  
But then...why is she shooting the police?  
  
Don't people who shoot at the police have to go to jail?  
  
At least she's not shooting to kill them. She's just hitting their arms and legs.  
  
Every time we get close to the door, there's another policeman who shoots at Misti, and that makes me angry; if anyone hurts her, I'll be so sad!  
  
Misti doesn't look scared at all, though; she's just turning around and blasting at people like it's the easiest thing ever.  
  
She's really good at this!  
  
I hate to say it, since guns and shooting and stuff is bad...but I kind of want to be like her!  
  
  
  
The kid is watching me with something of adoration in her eyes, and that gives me the ego-boost I need to get out of this peaceful family restaurant gone gang-shootout.  
  
I fire a few last rounds, being sure to get them all into their target, then grab Meghan's arms and hoist her into the air as I barge through the exit, shoving my way through the door and stumbling over the parking lot.  
  
I find the car within seconds and before I even realize it have buckled up (due to Meghan's nagging) and have pulled into the street and am speeding away as fast as I can without killing us.  
  
I'm a little shaken up—who wouldn't be, after that?—but otherwise unharmed, which is VERY lucky, considering the number of people who were shooting at me.  
  
After I'm pretty certain we're safe, I allow my concern to stretch a little to Meghan, "You ok?"  
  
She nods mutely.  
  
"Good."  
  
I sigh and switch the radio on, leaning back into my seat; I can't help but to feel at least slightly proud of myself.  
  
We both got out of their safe and sound, and I filled half a dozen cops with lead.  
  
I realize how wicked that sounds and smile, creeping even myself out a little.  
  
That's when the radio announcement catches my attention, and any feelings I have are washed away and replaced with seething rage.  
  
"..with the attack on the well-known Susan's Café, where Meghan Carnelle was last seen in the company of a middle aged Caucasian female, height 5'7", weight in the lower hundreds. Her identification was left at the café, and has given this information: the name of the woman is Margaret Johnasen, her age is twenty-eight. She is said to have red hair and green eyes. She is armed and dangerous, so if you see her, please keep as far back as possible and call 911. Again, this is radio news, reporting live for-"  
  
I instantly flick the radio off and stare straight ahead, heart thudding in anxiety and fury.  
  
"This...is...just...GREAT! I'm wanted for KIDNAPPING now! They probably have EVERY COP IN THE CITY AFTER US! Do you KNOW what this MEANS?!? It MEANS that my vacation is OFF! I'm now a CONVICT on the RUN with a KID I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO I SUPPOSEDLY TOOK! AND THEY HAVE MY ID! THIS IS JUST MAGNIFICENT!" I yell, slamming my fist on the dashboard.  
  
Meghan stifles a small sob and sniffles softly.  
  
"Oh, STOP! I'M the one who should be CRYING! I'M the one who should be FREAKING OUT! I NEVER should have picked you up! It went against my better judgment! I do ONE good thing and it blows up in my face! Man, this is just...just PERFECT!"  
  
She just sniffs again.  
  
Pitiful.  
  
"I should PROBABLY just let you out here and go on my merry way. Then I could just forget about this WHOLE mess. I could get another ID, some more money, and head to Las Vegas."  
  
No answer, just more tears.  
  
I take a deep breath to gather my wits and let it out slowly, "Ok. Ok, fine. It's good. It's fine."  
  
I reach over and grab a napkin, handing it to her, "C'mon, stop that. Quit crying. I can't handle that. Don't cry. It's ok. I was...I won't drop you off here. I won't leave you. It's ok."  
  
She takes the tissue and buries her face in it, crying still.  
  
"It's OK, Meghan. Really. We'll...figure something out. This isn't the first time I've been on the run. Really. It's all good. We'll be fine."  
  
"Y-You're m-mad at m-m-me!"  
  
"No. No, I'm not mad at YOU...not at YOU."  
  
"Yes!" she sobs in reply, still hiding her face.  
  
Probably ashamed.  
  
Super.  
  
I shake my head forcefully as I pull over on the side of this deserted road, "No, really. I would say so if I was. I'm really not mad at you. I'm mad at...I'm mad at that stupid fat waitress for lying. And I'm mad at the cops for chasing us. I'm not mad at YOU at all, ok?"  
  
"Then w-why did you y-yell at me?"  
  
She glances up at me slowly.  
  
Why do kids ask these things?  
  
I suppose I should be honest, huh?  
  
"Because you were the only one here. If you weren't here, I would have yelled at the radio."  
  
I see the beginnings of a smile on her face, "Really?"  
  
"Yea. Really."  
  
"What if you didn't have a radio?"  
  
I shrug, "I'd probably yell at the mirror. Or the steering wheel. I'd find something."  
  
"You don't have to yell," she said softly, "It scares people."  
  
"Well, maybe I WANT to scare people sometimes."  
  
  
  
Mistsi sure is confusing.  
  
I don't see why she has to yell.  
  
Why would she want to scare people?  
  
Scaring people is mean.  
  
Misti isn't mean.  
  
I know that.  
  
She can't be, be cause she saved me.  
  
I slowly look up at her; I feel shy around her for some reason.  
  
She's kind of scary now.  
  
Like someone bad, only...not bad.  
  
Kind of like a good guy who's a bad guy at the same time.  
  
Maybe she's both?  
  
Maybe she's neither?  
  
I don't know. All this confusion is really making my head hurt.  
  
I wish I was at the House, lying in my bed and just sleeping in my room with the other girls.  
  
I miss the House.  
  
Why'd things have to change?  
  
I feel like crying again.  
  
  
  
3:46 a.m.  
  
How many hours driving is that?  
  
We stopped for gas in one of those small, dirty towns with a total population of fifty at about 8:30 p.m.  
  
I bought Meghan a soda and some pretzels for dinner.  
  
I wasn't hungry.  
  
I guess she wasn't either, cuz she only ate a few pretzels.  
  
Now she's lying against the door, dead asleep.  
  
The gas tank is on empty again, and the nearest town is about fifteen miles away.  
  
I'm still deciding what to do with Meghan.  
  
I'm a mutant spy; I CAN'T watch little kids.  
  
It's not in my nature.  
  
I'm not one of those maternal types at all.  
  
I mean, I go around blasting people's brains out, playing the 'come hither' femme fatale, gambling my life and money and belongings away.  
  
I'm not 'mom' material.  
  
And I don't WANT to be.  
  
I guess I COULD just drop her off at the police station, except that if I get within twenty feet of one, they'll have me down and out in seconds.  
  
No, it's best just to keep on the move.  
  
Maybe I should just drive her back home to 'Cal-ee-for-nee-uh'.  
  
That makes me smile; I suppose that's always a good vacation spot.  
  
Only thing is, it'll take WEEKS to drive there.  
  
Then I have to come ALL THE WAY BACK to New York to continue my work for Ol' Bald-Man-In-A-Wheelchair Xavier.  
  
Plus, I'll have to stop at a hotel sometime.  
  
I don't think kids last well on the road.  
  
Something about constant boredom and potty breaks and whining.  
  
I'll go nuts and shoot her dead.  
  
Then I'll feel bad and have to bury her somewhere and be wanted for ANOTHER murder.  
  
Shoot.  
  
So HOW many weeks'll this take?  
  
And WHY am I doing this?  
  
Oh yea.  
  
I'm losing my spunk.  
  
I can't even drop a simply six-year-old girl on the curb anymore.  
  
Next thing you know, I'll be going soft on the man pointing a gun in my face.  
  
"Oh no, Sir. That's ok. Here, take MY gun! It works SOOO much better!"  
  
Great.  
  
I've been defeated by a CHILD.  
  
I shake my head tenaciously as I pull into the gas station; NO.  
  
That WILL NOT happen.  
  
I'll drop the stinkin' kid off at California, but I won't lose my edge.  
  
This is a different situation.  
  
And it's not like I'm being all mushy-lovey-dovey with her, either.  
  
And I never WILL be, either.  
  



	4. Chapter Four

Hey everyone! Sorry it took me a while to update; I've started updating another story. Anyway, I hope you like this next chapter. Excitement's picking up! ;-) And to everyone, I'm SO glad you noted how dead I'd be if Mystique found out about her new nickname. 'Misti' just seemed to fit her in the eyes of a six-year-old, lol. Too bad Mystique doesn't see that view... *winces* OUCH! Whatchit, wouldja Misti? I mean, Mystique? That arm IS attached, ya know...  
  
Pendragon: Hey! So glad you like this story! You're reviews make me so happy! I JUST LOVE YOUR USERNAME! How'd you come up with it? I'm glad you think I portray Mystique so well. She's lots of fun to write! Teehee.  
  
Rogue 151: Hello! Glad you liked the chapter, I tried to make it funny. I'm not sure if the Mystique series goes along in the same universe with the other comics...it just might. But like you said, maybe she didn't really have any reason to think of Rogue. She's never mentioned her in any of the comics I've read, but I haven't seen EVERY issue. I'll definitely tell you if I see different though. X-Treme X-Men is my favorite X-0Men series. ;-) It's awesome! I can't wait for school to be out, can you? Lol.  
  
Demiducky: Howdy! Yes, kids do seem to keep the same enthusiasm, don't they? Lol. All of my little brothers and cousins do. It's pretty funny! (  
  
Tique: Hi! Great to hear form you! Glad you enjoyed the chapter! (  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Chapter 4  
  
I wake up with the sun in my eyes and my back really sore.  
  
I close my eyes hard and moan, stretching slowly as I sit up in my seat.  
  
My clothes are wrinkled and smell dirty; I guess they should, since I've been wearing them for so long.  
  
I look over to the driver's side and see that Misti is nowhere to be found; the key is still in the ignition as the radio is playing.  
  
I look out the window and see that we're pulled in front of a very old building that looks like it's gonna fall down any second.  
  
The colored, light-up sign on its roof says 'HOTL'.  
  
I squint and see that the 'E' is burned out; it's s'posed to say 'hotel', I guess.  
  
The sky is very, very pale; like it's been frozen from the sun being gone all night.  
  
I guess it must be pretty early in the morning; there are still a few stars above me, although the moon is gone.  
  
I jump as my door suddenly swings open and I fall out; the only reason I don't fall onto the road is because I'm still buckled up.  
  
Surprised and a little afraid, I look up quickly, thinking it might be Them come back to get me.  
  
It's just Misti.  
  
I relax and smile a little, "Hi."  
  
"Hi."  
  
She looks really tired.  
  
Like about to fall over.  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"Somewhere between nowhere and somewhere."  
  
I frown, "So...is that a place?"  
  
She shakes her head and covers her eyes with her hand, "I...guess. Listen, we only have a room for about three hours, so would you mind hustlin' a bit?"  
  
I really have no clue what that means, but when she reaches over and yanks the keys out of the car and unbuckles me, then starts to walk into the 'hotel', I follow her obediently.  
  
  
  
If there was some award for the World's Longest Headache, I'd HAVE to win it.  
  
Why won't it leave me alone?!?  
  
I let out an irritated sigh as I jam our room key into the rusty doorknob, twisting it hard and gasping in pain as the door jams and sprains my wrist.  
  
I nearly curse, but stop myself when I see Meghan standing by me, looking at me expectantly.  
  
"Good grief."  
  
With a low growl, I kick the door open and step into the room, immediately covering my nose as the dank odor of dirty laundry and mildew swamps me.  
  
THIS is a room?  
  
The carpet is stained a nasty shade of green (I think it used to be white, a hundred years ago) and the puke-orange wallpaper is peeling and flaking onto the floor. There is only one lumpy, unkempt bed that has a worn and torn quilt on it and sheets that have obviously seen better days.  
  
I don't even want to look in the bathroom.  
  
Meghan steps past me and looks around.  
  
Her face lights up with a grin, "TV! COOL!"  
  
Count on kids to see the bright side.  
  
"Yea. Cool."  
  
I collapse onto the bed, not even trying to mask the stench of body odor and sweat.  
  
After dragging a pillow towards me, I close my eyes and instantly zonk out.  
  
For a second.  
  
"...Misti? Misti? MISTI!?!?"  
  
"...wha-? Huh? What?"  
  
I open one eye forcefully, exhaustion fogging my brain.  
  
Meghan stands uncertainly at the bedside, biting her lip, "...I...well...can...can I watch TV?"  
  
"Yea...sure...knock yourself out..."  
  
I'm dead asleep again.  
  
Way-too-soon later:  
  
"...Misti? Hey, Misti...? MISTI!"  
  
"Huh? What?"  
  
"I can't reach the switch for the TV."  
  
"...the switch?"  
  
"Uh huh. To turn it on."  
  
Her words are traveling in slow-motion, registering in my brain like melted tar.  
  
Finally, I shove myself up and stumble across the room to the television, flicking it on, "There."  
  
I collapse, passed out.  
  
Guess what?  
  
"Misti?"  
  
I kind of expected it that time, though.  
  
"...what?"  
  
"...there's nothing on."  
  
"...There's always something on. Keep switching channels until you find something."  
  
"I can't. The remote's under your head."  
  
"Goodness...!"  
  
I reach under the pillow, grope around, and fling it at her when I find it.  
  
"...thank you."  
  
I didn't hear. I'm asleep.  
  
I wake myself up this time, maybe because I'm shocked SHE doesn't wake me up.  
  
It's only twenty, thirty minutes later.  
  
I groggily sit up, my body aching and shrieking at me to just lie back down.  
  
I just wanna check on the kid real quick.  
  
She's sitting on the ground at the foot of the bed, watching TV like a good little girl.  
  
"Hey, Kid. Whatcha watchin'?"  
  
"I dunno what it's called. But Misti? I have a question."  
  
I roll over to face her, yawning, "Shoot."  
  
"Why are the man and lady kissing like that? And...why are they sleeping without clothes on?"  
  
I guess that's my wake up call.  
  
  
  
Misti really didn't sleep long; after I ask her my question, she turns off the TV really fast and tells me I can't ever watch TV alone again.  
  
She doesn't sound angry; after she says that, she goes into the bathroom and I think I hear her kind of laughing.  
  
When she comes back out, she has different clothes on and has her face washed and her hair brushed and everything; I ask her how she did that without bringing anything into the bathroom, and she looks kind of almost scared.  
  
"I...brushed my hair with my hands. Got the clothes from the bathroom. Some stupid lady left them."  
  
I kind of make a face, "Is that really sanitary?"  
  
She shrugs and then comes over and sits by me.  
  
After a second, she shakes her head, "Kid, you're really a sight."  
  
I guess I am; I haven't had a bath in a long time, and I've had the same clothes for awhile ( like I said); I haven't even brushed my hair in about a week.  
  
I can feel my cheeks burning and I look away from her and pick at my shoes.  
  
"It's no biggie, Kid. We'll just find an actual livable place tonight and get you cleaned up, eh?"  
  
I look up and smile a little bit, "That'd be nice."  
  
  
  
Whoever said that 'patience is a virtue' should spend half a day locked in a small, cramped, hot vehicle driving through the middle of nowhere with a bored and carsick six-year-old and no ID or money whatsoever.  
  
Then we'll see how 'virtuous' patience would seem.  
  
Really, I'm doing a pretty good job controlling my temper, considering the stress I'm under.  
  
We've been driving for exactly seven hours, forty-six minutes and twenty- three seconds.  
  
It's been Hell, to say it nicely.  
  
First off, we found out we're low on gas, cash, and entertainment for kids. Then we discovered (the hard way) that Meghan's only slightly extremely carsick. After we (meaning I) attempted to clean up the car, we stopped for lunch at a grungy deli that happened to serve free lunch to police officers (there were at least half a dozen there, and all their radios were squawking the story about 'the evil woman who kidnapped Meghan Carnelle').  
  
We left relatively quickly, me swearing angrily because I hate cops and Meghan on the verge of tears because she was hungry.  
  
About a hundred miles later, we stopped for gas and spent almost the rest of my money on soda and hotdogs (I never thought I'd be surviving on THAT), and got rather unpleasant looks from the cashier when Meghan decided that the can of soda she wanted was the one at the BOTTOM of the stacks of sodas exactly identical to it (we had a little chat about the effects of gravity after she yanked it out and watched the cashier mop up the mess).  
  
Now, finally, we're within two hundred miles of the next 'big city', where I KNOW I can get another fake ID and some cash, Meghan is asleep with a bowl on her lap (she just couldn't hold down that soda), we have a full tank of gas, the car's top is down, and I'm FREE.  
  
I don't have to bite my tongue when I feel the need to scream a 'bad word'.  
  
I don't have to wear 'appropriate' clothes and listen to 'ok' music.  
  
I can stop in the town ahead and grab a beer if I want.  
  
I can smoke, drink, do drugs, and be MYSELF!  
  
...at least, as long as Meghan stays asleep I can.  
  
Can't possibly do any of that while she's conscious.  
  
For some reason, I just can't be myself around her.  
  
It's like she's too...FRAGILE or something.  
  
Like the 'real' me will break her.  
  
I shake my head as the cool wind runs its fingers through my hair; since when do I use words like 'fragile'?  
  
This kid is making me go nuts, and it's only been three days.  
  
I glance over to her sleeping form and carelessly drape my jacket over her; I don't want her to wake up from the wind.  
  
That would suck.  
  
Then I'd have to roll the top back up, turn off the radio, hide my cigarettes, and forget about ANY kind of 'real' drink back in town.  
  
Maybe she'll sleep all night and I'll be able to 'PARTE'?  
  
YEA right.  
  
I'm dead-tired, to tell the truth.  
  
I'm running on pure sugar from that cursed soda, and as soon as it wears off, I'll drop down like a sack of flour.  
  
No, no party for me.  
  
Just a hotel room—a NICE one—and a good bed.  
  
That's all I need right now.  
  
After that, I'll be good as new.  
  
A good night's sleep, shower in the morning, a decent breakfast...  
  
Oh yea.  
  
I'll be back in action, Baby.  
  
Then I'll figure out step two.  
  
But if I have to have another day like this one, I will scream.  
  
  
  
"Meg. Hey, Meg. Wake up, Kid. C'mon."  
  
I open my eyes, and it feels like I have rocks in them.  
  
I feel so sick right now.  
  
All day, my stomach's been twisting and bubbling; I've never thrown up so many times.  
  
My head is pounding every time my heart beats; it feels like my brain is swelling up.  
  
I look up at Misti and the world tips over; I feel so dizzy.  
  
I want to cry.  
  
I don't feel good!  
  
I wish I was better.  
  
I hate being sick.  
  
I can't see very well, so I rub my eyes and blink a few times, but when I look back at Misti, it's still blurry.  
  
My whole body feels heavy, like I swallowed a big bag of sand and it all went down to my legs and arms.  
  
I'm really hot, too; I feel all sweaty.  
  
I don't think I can walk.  
  
I really don't want to; I just want to go back to sleep, where it doesn't hurt so much.  
  
"C'mon, Meg. Got us a hotel room. This one's nice, I promise. Let's get up to bed, I'm exhausted."  
  
I want to explain it to her, but I can't.  
  
I just don't think she'd understand.  
  
  
  
I don't understand.  
  
Why isn't she getting up?  
  
You'd think she'd be all psyched about a new room.  
  
I mean she was racing all over the last one, and it was a replica of Stinktown, U.S.A; what's wrong with her?  
  
I gaze at her closely, noting her pale, sweaty face and glossed-over eyes; maybe she's a little sicker than I thought.  
  
"Meg...are you alright? Can you hear me?"  
  
Slowly, her eyes focus on me and she nods.  
  
For some reason, that relaxes me, "Ok. Good." I open the car door a little wider and reach in, "C'mon...I'll help you out. You're probably just tired from the trip..."  
  
She stumbles out, disoriented and tired, with me holding her up by her arms.  
  
She stands shakily by me, staring down at the sidewalk and breathing heavily.  
  
After a second, she gazes up at me with her lower lip trembling and lifts her hands up, reaching up for me to pick her up, "Misti...I...can't..."  
  
I watch her for a moment, really (REALLY) not wanting to pick her up.  
  
That signifies something, doesn't it?  
  
Picking her up?  
  
That has to signify something.  
  
However, she just seems way too weak and fatigued to help herself, and it's not like I haven't held little kids before, so I reach down and lift her into my arms; it's then that I realize how hot she feels.  
  
Great. Now I'm worried.  
  
I don't let on, though; I just close the car door, turn and walk into the hotel as casually as I can, even though I can feel anxiety starting to build in my mind.  
  



End file.
